Reform
by IncomprehensibleSparks
Summary: The Nations were too much trouble, so their bosses got rid of them. But a Nation can never die so long as its inhabitants remain loyal. And when a group of confused teenagers recover centuries' worth of memories... GerIta, Spamano, others. AWKWARD PAGE BREAKS FIXED.
1. Prologue: The End

_AN. Hello! After sitting at my computer for hours fighting back the nerves, I've decided to finally post this. "This" is my first ever APH fic, and I will probably completely fail at writing with Hetalian characters… so please leave reviews to give me advice or confidence! None of the mentioned politicians in this story are in any way real/based off any existing people. The President of the US (in this story) is purely fictional. _

_**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not, has never, and will never belong to me. The concepts and plotline in **__Reform__**, however, do.**_

_6:55 PM, Local Time_

A phone rang: the tinkling chimes echoing loudly through the huge, lonely mansion.

Tired fingers clutched at thin air, before coming to rest on a button.

"Mr Rodgers?"

"That would be me." The answering voice was masculine: cool and detached.

_Businesslike, _mused the Nation.

For that was what it was. Business.

"I have made my decision."

"What is it?"

"I… I am prepared to accept my Government's request."

The politician, far on the other end of the line, paused, taken momentarily off-guard.

"You are surprised?" asked the Nation, raising an eyebrow.

"Slightly," said the politician. "I would have expected _you, _of all people, to have disagreed. Though, you are not really a _person, _are you?"

"No, I am not."

The politician's soft sigh crackled down the telephone line. "In that case… You and your counterparts are to be erased first thing tomorrow morning."

"Understood, Mr Rogers. Good night."

The President of the United States surveyed the council room, beady eyes flitting from one face to another. There was a determined set to his jaw, and his lips were pressed into a thin, tight line.

"Last night," he began, "I received another one of these _threats. _It was sent by the same terrorist group as last time. I quote, _'If you, Mr President, do not agree to terminate the Personifications, I will see to it that ever man, woman and child under your jurisdiction suffer in their stead.'_"

A balding man, skin painted grey with stress, got slowly to his feet, and cleared his throat. "A number of us have spoken to our Nations regarding this matter. They have all agreed to… _step down, _if you will allow the terminology."

"So are we all in agreement?" asked the President. His tone was conversational: inappropriate for the setting. The tension in the large room was tangible, the silence deafening.

Slowly, the other politicians in attendance nodded. The English Prime Minister rose from her seat, and smiled blandly at the President.

"Yes. The Nations must go. Far too much conflict has been attributed to their many disputes. And many-" she cleared her throat, a look of annoyance passing over her face, "-are disobedient."

Noises of ascent could be heard from all corners of the room, particularly from the Italian President, who shook his head, muttering under his breath. His Nations, in particular, were exceptionally troublesome.

"It is settled then. All that must now be done is for the oaths to be withdrawn." The American President lifted a heavy tome from the podium in front of him, and gently opened the cover.

"In alphabetical order, if you will."

"America? What the bloody hell are you doing, falling asleep on me?"

England roughly shook the taller Nation, who had apparently decided to take an impromptu nap on his shoulder. America had _never _fallen asleep in the middle of _Top Gun _before.

For a moment, all was quiet.

Then, with a loud splintering noise, America's wire-frame glasses snapped cleanly in two, the glass within them shattering.

"So then I was all, 'Go Home, You Pervert,' and he… What's with you, West? Did you just fall asleep on me?"

Prussia glanced across at his younger "brother," who had slumped forward onto the kitchen table, sending his mug of beer tumbling to the floor.

The amber liquid seeped slowly across the white tiles, eerily reminiscent of blood.

"West? Hell, Germany! Wake up!"

"Liet! Like, what's with you?"

"Romano? Lovi? Lovi!"


	2. Three Years Later

**Disclaimer: See Chapter One. It still applies.**

_**Three Years Later…**_

_Red. What an odd colour to see, first thing in the morning._

"_Oh, Canada," crooned a teasing, heavily accented voice. "Wake up, please."_

_Mattie groaned, rolling away from the eyes and the voice, pulling a pillow over his head. "Ngh… too early…"_

"_It's six o'clock!" the voice cried. "And I'm really hungry!"_

"_There's bread on the counter, Pru," Mattie grumbled._

_Pru? Who was 'Pru?'And why was he in Mathew's house?_

"_But I want pancakes, Birdie!" he whined. "No one makes them as well as you can!"_

_And… 'Birdie?'_

"_Alright, alright," Mattie sighed._

_A second later, the warm, soft bed-sheets were ripped instantly from his body with a loud, 'KESESESE!' The freezing air mercilessly attacked Mattie's skin, freezing him down to his bones._

"_M-maple!" he spluttered, while the other Nation roared with laughter. "You… you… What was that for, eh?"_

_Prussia grinned, the dawn light glinting off his teeth, accentuating the curve of his nose and lips. "You wouldn't have woken up so fast, otherwise."_

_Mattie sat there, in his shorts and woollen jersey, and for a moment, all he could do was stare. The glint in Prussia's eyes grew softer, warmer, and Mattie felt something wriggle in the pit of his stomach, felt his cheeks burn._

_Then, the white-haired man had leaned down, so that they were almost nose-to-nose, and…_

A phone rang.

Mathew Williams ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair, unsticking his cheek from the kitchen table. When had he fallen asleep? _How _had he? After all, his head felt like it was being mercilessly attacked with a pick-axe, and his skin – _all of it, everywhere – _blazed as if he were being burned at the stake.

"Damn you, Alfred Jones," he groaned, resting his head on his arms. His best friend, and uncanny doppelganger, had been off school for a number of days now. He had probably passed the same disgusting virus on to Mattie when they'd gone ice-skating last Sunday…

_"Oh yeah," said Prussia, over a large plate of pancakes. "America rang this morning. Said something about a meeting…"_

_Mathew sat upright, reaching for his glasses. "What about the meeting?"_

_"West wants to shift it backward. Not that it's any of my business."_

_Prussia's usual cocky smirk slipped from his face for a lingering moment. He looked away, and Mattie felt the usual rush of sympathy for the dissolved Nation. Prussia wouldn't let his façade slip for just anyone; Mattie was, in a way, special…_

_The smirk was back, the moment lost. "Come on, Canada. Make me some of your famous pancakes," said Prussia, pointing imperiously in the general direction of the kitchen downstairs._

_Mattie sighed, hauling himself out of bed and slipping a shirt over a pair of worn tracksuit pants. "I'm not your slave, Pru."_

_"Kesesese… Sure, Birdie. You just keep on believing that."_

_Why 'Birdie?' Why 'Canada?' His name was Mattie. And more to the point, he was positive that Prussia wasn't a person, rather, an empire that had once fall- "Mattie? Wake up, sweetie."_

Mattie's breath caught in his throat, and his heart lurched. His violet eyes flew open, and he half expected to see… no… it wasn't _him_…

"Mum!" he gasped. A dark haired woman stared down at him, a smile playing around her mouth.

"What's wrong, Mattie? You look sick."

Mattie nodded, his heart rate gradually slowing. He groaned as he discovered that now, in addition to the headache, his stomach was also churning violently.

_Maple… _The word snuck, unbidden into his head. He wondered what it meant. Hadn't he said it before? In the dream?

Gabrielle Williams smoothed her son's hair back from his forehead, checking his temperature. "Hmm…" She frowned in puzzlement. "You don't feel hot."

Mattie brushed her hand away, sitting up slowly. "I-"

Bile rose up in his throat, and he coughed hoarsely. What the hell was wrong with him?

Gabrielle clicked her tongue. "Come over to the couch, and lie down, sweetie. Do you feel nauseous? Sweaty?"

Mattie nodded again, not trusting himself to speak. His mother tugged his shoes off, grimacing at the horrible smell.

"Go back to sleep. I'll bring you dinner later." With a quick kiss on the forehead, Gabrielle left, probably for the study.

Mattie sighed and leaned back into his pillow._ Prussia_… Who was _Prussia?_

His phone beeped softly, squished in his back pocket. Mattie tugged it out – another text message.

_Mattie_

_Need 2 talk 2 u, __**urgently**_

_Meet me at VPaP in 5_

_A._

Mattie started to type, '_HELL NO, I'M SICK,' _but paused as he reread the message. Nothing was ever 'urgent' with Alfred. He was just an outgoing, easy-going kind of guy, who took life one giant leap at a time.

If Mattie knew nothing else, he knew that when Alfred got upset, _the shit got real._

_Fine, _he replied. _I'll be there in ten._

The Italian food joint was packed, as usual. Old Mr Vargas' food was renowned as being the best in town, and he had a constant stream of customers who were all too willing to leave a tip. It was five 'o clock rush hour; every teenager for miles around seemed to be out for dinner with their friends.

Mattie parked his bike, tied it to a rack, and headed inside, wincing as the cacophony of voices hit his ears. As the world swayed and the nauseous pit in his stomach grew, he realised that leaving his room had been a very bad idea.

His target was instantly in sight: sitting in the far corner of the restaurant, at the table virtually reserved for sophomores. He looked stressed, and was running a hand through his corn silk hair every few seconds, pushing his glasses (very similar to Mattie's) up his sweaty nose.

"Alfred!" Mattie called, attempting to weave his way over to him, blocked by a particularly raucous group of female seniors.

Alfred did not look up: lost too deeply in his thoughts to register his friend's voice.

As a result, he jumped as Mattie collapsed into the seat across from him.

"Hey!" Alfred exclaimed, a flicker of relief dancing across his friendly face.

Mattie groaned, resting his elbows on the table. "Hey, Alfred. Whatever you need to tell me better be pretty important. I had to climb out my bedroom window, and my Mum's gonna panic when she finds me gone…"

The expression of relief was instantly replaced with uncharacteristic worry, and Alfred looked away, biting his lip. The action was so familiar that Mattie's heart leapt, and he started.

"What?" Alfred said, blue eyes flicking back to his friend.

Mattie shook his head in confusion, brow furrowing. "Nothing… You just… reminded me of someone."

Alfred's eyes lit up. "Who? Who did I remind you of, C- Mattie?"

Mattie's eyes narrowed. He was a little too perceptive sometimes: the product of being a near constant wallflower, quieter than all of his schoolmates. Except for maybe that one Japanese kid.

"Cmattie?" Mattie queried, raising an eyebrow.

But Alfred was saved from answering as someone bounced up to their table, note-pad in hand.

"Ciao, Alfred! Uh… Mattie?" Feliciano Vargas was glowing, as usual, unruly auburn curl bobbing up and down as if caught in a wind. "How are you?"

Both boys knew Feli from school; he was in their grade, and in Mattie's Physical Education class. His family was obviously loaded with cash, but Feliciano and his brother were made to work part time at their grandfather's restaurant. "Building Character," was Nonno Vargas' excuse – though Mattie suspected the job was more for his older brother Lovino's benefit than anything else.

Alfred beamed back at him. "I'm fine, Ita… Feliciano…"

"Speak for yourself," moaned Mattie, hand pressed against his forehead as another wave of dizziness swept through him.

"Can I get you anything?" asked Feliciano, gazing concernedly down at the top of Mathew's head. "Nonno made some really nice pasta today, Alfred. Will you try some?"

"Sure!" said Alfred. "I think that Mattie'll pass, though…"

"Ve~ I'll be back in a little while," said Feliciano, vacant smile still in place. He bounced off, presumably back to the kitchens to fill their order.

"So," started Mathew, wincing as pain scraped at his arm, "what's wrong, Alfred?"

Alfred's enthusiastic expression, which had lingered since Feliciano's presence, vanished in an instant. "Mattie…" he mumbled. "Don't you_ remember_?"

"Remember _what?" _Mattie hissed, growing irritated.

Alfred's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. Mattie had never heard it venture below a shout in all fifteen years of knowing him. "You know… America? Canada? Hell, _Prussia_? Tch… I knew you'd remember _him._"

Mathew reeled back, shock coursing through his veins, along with another emotion which he couldn't quite place…

"I- I- How-"

"Did you have a dream or something?" Alfred pressed, interrupting him. "When did you first start to feel sick?"

"I… This afternoon..." Mattie's head spun faster than ever, he couldn't think straight, he was battling ferociously with his stomach, trying to keep his food where it belonged.

"Right," said Alfred, heaving a sigh. "You should be feeling better by tomorrow afternoon. I'll come over then, okay?"

"How do you know that I'll be feeling better by then, eh?"

"Just… trust me, okay?" said Alfred, fiddling with the red, green and white paper napkin resting on the wooden table.

"The last time I trusted you, I ended up with a concussion and a broken wrist."

Alfred looked slightly sheepish. "Sorry 'bout that. But this is different, okay?"

"Alright," Mathew sighed, knowing better then to argue. "Can I go home now, Master? I feel really fucking sick."

"No need to swear," Alfred chided, clicking his tongue mockingly. "See you later, dude."

Mattie rolled his eyes, pushed his glasses up his nose, and headed quickly for home, Feliciano waving cheerfully after him.


	3. Switch

_WARNING: Romano's filthy mouth._

* * *

><p><em>The following day…<em>

"Lovi? You look dead."

Lovino Vargas rolled his eyes, collapsing into his usual seat at the back of the Spanish classroom. "Don't call me 'Lovi'. And Feliciano was screaming all fucking night."

Antonio's emerald green eyes widened in concern. "Is he alright? Was it nightmares, or-"

"I don't give a shit."

Antonio smiled wryly, his pencil flicking haphazardly across the page of his worn notebook. Lovino looked and acted like a bastard, but after a year and a half of classes together, the Spaniard knew concern when he saw it. No matter how deep it was buried.

"_As always," _his friend Francis had said, when Antonio had voiced this theory, "_you are exceptionally optimistic."_

"So where is he today?" he asked casually. His pencil had sketched out a sleeping Lovino, his hair falling gracefully across his forehead.

"Home," Lovino replied shortly. Then he frowned. "What the hell are you doing?" He snatched Antonio's notebook and ripped out the sheet of drawing paper, crumpling it in his fist.

Antonio pouted in mock-disappointment. "Now Lovi, I know my drawings aren't as good as Feliciano's or yours, but-"

"Don't call me that fucking _stupid_ nickname," Lovino snapped, glaring around at the rest of the class, who were unashamedly staring at the pair. "What are you all looking at?"

"Mr Vargas, sit down," hissed the newly-arrived teacher, his lips curving upward into a cruel parody of a smile.

Grumbling, Lovino sat, his cheeks glowing a dull red. Antonio noticed this, and smiled widely. He retrieved his notebook, scribbled something on a fresh page, and passed it back to his friend.

_You look like a little tomato!_

Lovino paused, scowling down at the offending book. Something was playing at the back of his mind, dancing just out of reach...

He shook his head swiftly, as if to send the ridiculous thoughts flying from his brain, and wrote a quick reply.

_Go fuck yourself._

Antonio smile only grew larger.

* * *

><p>The cafeteria was packed with students by the time Antonio and Lovino were allowed out of Spanish class; their teacher had a penchant for making the class sit into the first ten minutes of lunch break. Anyone who complained – usually Lovino – was doomed to an afternoon spent scraping gum of the undersides of desks.<p>

They made their way over to their usual table near the window, where a small dark haired boy already sat, frantically reading over a set of neatly written chemistry notes.

"Hey Kiku!" Antonio called cheerfully.

The Japanese boy gave a distracted – yet still polite – nod. "Antonio-san, Lovino-san. Ah, Ludwig-san! Do you still possess my Section Three notes?"

Lovino's head jerked up at the sound of the German student's name. Brown eyes narrowed, scanning the table for a sharp enough weapon.

"Ja, Kiku. They're in my locker." Ice blue eyes slid from his best friend to the other two, and he greeted them in his typically solemn fashion; "Antonio. Lovino."

Lovino's hazel eyes narrowed, hand inching slowly towards the metal fork sticking out of Antonio's container of baby tomatoes. That damn German tank, with his cold-as-fuck eyes and his stupid, slicked back hair, was exactly the sort of person who twanged at his frayed nerves.

To Lovino's credit, Ludwig looked decidedly uncomfortable, and nervously cleared his throat before next speaking. "Ah… I was wondering where Feliciano was today?"

"Quite obviously," Lovino snapped, "he isn't here today, bastard."

"He's sick," Antonio supplied helpfully. "You don't look too good yourself, Ludwig."

"Ja…" murmured Ludwig, scratching the back of his neck. "I came to tell Feliciano that I will not be able to meet him this afternoon. I'm going home early."

"Fine, I'll tell him."

As Ludwig strode away, Antonio eyed Lovino with a surprised smile. "That was generous of you, Lovi."

"Hmph," Lovino grumbled, sticking the fork back into the container of salad.

* * *

><p>"Welcome to Vargas' Pasta and Pizzeria, may I take your order?"<p>

"_Cher _Lovino! It has been far too long since we last saw each other!"

Lovino rolled his eyes, tucking his notepad into the pocket of the fucking_ stupid_ apron his grandfather had made him wear. Green and red were Christmas colours, for God's sake…

"Not long enough, Wino Bastard."

Introducing Francis Bonnefoy: best friend to Antonio, and a sophomore, to boot.

"Hi, Lovi!" cried Antonio from the seat opposite his friend. "What do you reccomend?"

"Tch... the pesto-stuffed ravioli is today's special."

"We'll have that then," Francis purred, accompanied by a sly wink. "And might I add: that apron truly does flatter your figure."

Lovino clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and... walked away. If he started another fight at the restaurant, he would lose three months' worth of salary.

_Three month's salary, three month's salary, calm the fuck down, stupid winos, damn Feli for getting sick on Friday, the busiest fucking day of the week..._

"Deck the perverted bastard! The country of the Mafia does _not _walk away from a fight!"

"What the hell?" Lovino cried, whirling around to flash a fearsome glare at whoever had dared to speak. A few students looked nervously up at him. A few others laughed.

Other than that, no one had made a sound.

* * *

><p><em>Across town; the Williams' residence…<em>

Mattie sat in the kitchen of his currently empty house. Empty. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked.

Someone was definitely watching him.

Every so often, he would drum his fingers on his knees, fiddling with one of the many loose threads poking out of his ratty jeans. Then he would glance up at the clock, willing it to go faster, to hit four…

He nearly fell out of his seat when their ear-shattering door clanged. He swallowed, and walked slowly over to the front door, _please don't kill me, whoever is watching me,_ opening it to see Alfred.

He stood in the doorway, clothes and hair sopping wet, the pounding rain belying the huge grin that stretched across his face.

The pair froze for a moment, staring into each other's eyes, each searching for recognition.

"America," whispered Mattie. Alfred, if it was possible, grinned even wider.

"Canada," he said, an unusual tremble in his voice.

"C-come in." Mattie stepped aside to let his friend through, closing the door quickly behind him.

Alfred… America… perched himself on the edge of the kitchen table, swinging his legs back and forth.

"So," whispered Mattie. "This… It isn't just me, right? Having…"

"Psh. I always thought you were smarter than that," Alfred scoffed. "You reckon this is just a hallucination?"

Mattie looked despairingly up at the ceiling, folding his arms tightly over his chest.

Alfred laughed loudly. "Dude, there isn't a thing about America that I don't know. I remember the War of Independence, the World Wars, the Cold War against that Commie bastard…"

"Don't call Russia a 'Commie bastard,'" said Mattie softly. "We used to play ice-hockey together." Then he pressed his lips tightly together, looking quickly away from the now triumphant Alfred.

"Always the peacekeeper," he snickered.

"Always the hero," Mattie retorted.

There was a pause.

"You know there are more of us, right?" said Mattie.

Alfred grinned. "Our school's crawling with Nations. Oddly convenient, don't you think? The Vargas twins, Antonio, Arthur Kirkland, Beilschmidt…"

Mathew froze, his mind spinning back to Gilbert. He bit his lip, his eyebrows furrowing in worry.

"What?" asked Alfred in confusion. "Ludwig?"

"Prussia."

A look of dawning realisation crept slowly over Alfred's face. "Oh… You were pretty good friends with him, weren't you?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Where do you reckon he is?"

Mattie shrugged helplessly. "I dunno. It would help if we knew how this happened in the first place…"

"Don't worry about it!" cried Alfred, his legs swinging more enthusiastically than ever. "Once everyone else remembers, then we'll have a good old fashioned world meeting, as Iggy would say!"

"There are only a few of us here," Mattie reminded him. "We're missing Russia and the Baltics, the Nordics, Austria, Switzerland and Lichtenstein, Hungary, Poland…"

"Alright, alright, I get the picture," Alfred said, frowning in thought. Then his face brightened. "But we have to start somewhere, right? And since I'm the Hero, I'm sure we'll have everyone back together in no time! Hey, you know what? We should start a Facebook group!"

Mattie bit back a sigh. It was the same old Alfred, alright: steamrolling ahead without any respect for the consequences.

"We can't put up a Facebook group," Mattie stated calmly.

"Why?" said Alfred, genuinely puzzled.

"What, alert whoever did this to us that we're still alive?"

Alfred's face fell. "Oh yeah…"

"At the very least, _wait _a few weeks until everyone else wakes up. Alright, Alfred?"

"Um… Canada…"

"What is it?"

"I… I'm not Alfred."

* * *

><p>"Holy Rome!"<p>

Feliciano's shout was what greeted Lovino as he arrived home after work. Nice greeting, yeah? _Right. _He paused in the doorway, glancing up towards his brother's room. What the hell? _Holy Rome?_

He shrugged, putting it down to his twin's usual strange behaviour, dumping his schoolbag on the sparkling tiles, and grabbing a tomato from the fruit bowl.

A moment later, Feliciano burst into the kitchen, his amber eyes wide with excitement, curl bobbing up and down like a springboard.

"_Romano_!" he cried, and launched himself at Lovino. The tomato flew out of his hand, landing with a SPLAT against the opposite wall.

"Chigi~!" he cried, attempting (without success) to shove Feliciano off. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Feliciano looked up at him, beaming. "_Ve_, fratello! What's wrong?"

Lovino stared down at him: for once, speechless.

"Doesn't fratello remember?" the smaller boy questioned, the excited gleam partially fading from his eyes.

"Remember what, Feli?" huffed Lovino.

"Don't worry! You'll remember soon, no?"

Feliciano waved, and left the room. A moment later, he heard the portable phone unclick from its dock in the hallway.

Lovino stood stock still, eyes flicking from the doorway to the bright red stain coating the wall, and back again.

"What the hell just happened…?"

* * *

><p><strong>GerIta and SpaMano are the only certain, irreversible pairings.<strong>


	4. Ruins

For the first time in about a year, Prussia had ventured outside. Dim streetlamps barely pierced the gloom. There wasn't a star in sight.

Every step along the worn, cracked pavement bordering the block of abandoned apartments was a struggle. Hell, every _breath _was its own miniature trial.

He had changed a lot in his solitude. He wasn't the exuberant, awesome person he used to be, and he knew it; his silver hair hung limp around his face, pale skin translucent, once brilliant red eyes devoid of life. In all honesty, he had tried to avoid having to ever look in a mirror. He tended to brush his teeth in the kitchen sink.

His fists clenched, and in a rare moment of incomprehensible anger, he violently kicked a soft-drink can that someone had carelessly dropped onto the pavement. It flew ten feet: onto the road, where it was crushed under the wheels of a passing car.

Prussia felt his eyes prickle, and he blinked furiously to stave off the oncoming tears. The sky that night was a rich violet, the exact colour of Mattie's eyes...

How pathetic. Had he truly stooped so low? He gritted his teeth, forcing the memories away. He couldn't think about any of them, not Francis or Antonio or Mattie... Damn it! Not when they were _dead. _Not when the impossible had become reality...

They were fucking countries! How could they all just... disappear one day? Without warning? Without war or official dissolution?

But Prussia knew that the impossible _could _happen. He was still alive, wasn't he? Through sheer willpower and need to remain on earth, he had managed to stave off death. He was no longer a country... yet he still had no need to eat or drink, although he could if he wished. He did not age.

"Fuck..." he whispered, his low voice harsh and broken. Red eyes glared up at the violet sky. "Why... Why couldn't I have just died as well?"

He received no answer. The world continued to revolve, the streetlights continued to glow ineffectually, and time continued to pass.

With a small, bitter laugh, Prussia turned, and wandered home. He wouldn't be going out again anytime soon.

* * *

><p><em>Six Months Later…<em>

"The block's gonna be redeveloped? Why?"

The realtor sighed, pushing a pair of highly unattractive horn-rimmed glasses up his nose, and running a nervous hand along the shiny bald patch on top of his head. "Look, sir. You technically aren't supposed to be living here in the first place. This is council land."

Gilbert cursed, collapsing back onto a ratty old sofa. "Then where the hell_ am_ I supposed to live?"

"That isn't my problem, Mr Beilschmidt. Don't you have friends? Family you can stay with?"

"Obviously not, if I'm living in this pile of shit."

The realtor sighed again. Prussia suspected that the constant sighing was a nervous habit of his. "Honestly, Mr Beilschmidt, I'm through with being nice. Either you leave _now_, or I call the police."

Prussia's filthy face froze in horror, mind working at a hundred miles per minute.

The police knew who he was, and not just in human terms. As he was technically a Nation, he had been exempted from prison for many years: a factor which whoever had murdered his friends might have overlooked. Would a sentencing draw attention to him? He couldn't afford to be captured; it would only add insult to injury, as his brother was gone, Canada was gone, Austria, Hungary, everything was gone…

"Alright, Mr Beilschmidt. Don't panic. All you need to do is walk through that front door, and there'll be no more trouble…"

_WHAM._

And Prussia had decked the scrawny bastard, right in the nose.

He hoisted the estate agent to his feet by the collar of his shirt, lowered his mouth to the man's ear, and hissed, "_You dare mention me to anyone, and you'll wish you'd never wriggled out from your Daddy's balls."_

Instinct had guided him. It was the same sort of feeling that had exalted him to victory in the days of the Teutonic Knights: a vicious gut instinct. He knew from experience that it was always right.

Flashes of England. A small town, just north of London. Somewhere he would be safe. Somewhere he could lie low.

Well, lower than he'd lain as of late. Thank God his National Passport would remain eternally valid. The look on the airport chick's face as she had processed him had been absolutely priceless to behold; she had immediately issued him a business-class ticket, with a muttered, "_Enjoy your flight, Mr... Mr Prussia…"_

The aeroplane was crowded, but somehow, Prussia had still ended up with two expansive seats to himself. He picked the one closest to the window, so he could look out upon the glistening tarmac, set aglow by the brilliantly crimson sun.

Not that he liked sunsets. Or became sentimental whenever he saw them... Or anything...

It was interesting, thinking about how much the world could change in twenty years. Such a _short _period of time, to someone who had been alive for centuries.

The countries had gone... Germany had gone... _Canada _had gone…

Prussia was distinctly reminded of a night, around two years ago, when he had aimlessly wandered the streets, shouting obscenities at the sky. The sky outside was darkening to that exact colour now.

It still hurt. Every single reminder of any of _them_, no matter how seemingly irrelevant – a falling maple leaf, a cup of tea – was an individual stab to the chest. Prussia, invincible, awesome Prussia, reduced to someone who... _cared_.

He thought that if he just hid himself from the world, and stayed locked up in an abandoned lot of apartments, the pain would go away. He would welcome a single gunshot from Switzerland. That prissy aristocrat's bitching. A whack from a frying pan. Hell, he would even welcome Russia's filthy mansion with open arms.

"I swear upon my non-existent country that I will give up..."

Prussia swallowed, looking around the plane nervously to see if anyone had heard him. Then he continued to whisper frantically to the window, trying to let out all his words before the sun set.

"I swear on the ancient land of Prussia that I won't call myself awesome ever again, if I get the chance to see any of them – to see Canada – just one more time."

* * *

><p>And, two days earlier, a hundred miles away, said Nation had been staring at one Alfred F. Jones, mind whirling in confusion.<p>

"I… I'm not so sure what you mean. Don't get me wrong, eh? I know that I'm Canada. But I'm still _me. _I'm still Mathew Williams."

America sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck, sky blue eyes uncharacteristically stressed behind his glasses. "I… I'm really sorry, Mattie… I only woke up a couple of days ago. Last I remember, I was watching movies with England, then BAM!"

Mattie jumped, clutching his hands to his chest in an attempt to calm his beating heart.

"_Don't worry," _said a timid voice, in the back of his mind. It reminded Mattie of wind, sighing through trees. "_I promise that I'll explain everything to you after America leaves."_

"I woke up in Alfred's brain! Cool, huh? Anyway, I think I might've shoved him out, or something. 'Cause one moment he was there, and I panicked, and then… And then he wasn't," he finished lamely. His eyes searched Mattie's face apprehensively, looking for any reaction whatsoever.

There was none.

Mathew could only stare at him, uncomprehending. It was as though his brain refused to process the information. Finally, he managed to stutter, "S-so you're n-not Alfred. You're America. And I'm not Canada."

"Uh… Yeah, that sounds about right."

"_Maple."_

"Hello? Voice from before? Are you there?"

Silence. Moonlight streaked innocently in through open shutters.

Then, gentle as the touch of a feather, the voice responded.

"_Yes… He-Hello, Mattie…"_

"Are you Canada?"

"_Yeah… I… I'm r-really sorry for this afternoon… I should have sp-spoken to you sooner, eh?"_

"It doesn't matter. So, America took over Alfred's mind? He killed him?"

"_H-He couldn't help it," _whispered Canada, a note of chastisement entering his mental voice. "_He's exuberant, that's all… Nothing like this has ever happened before…"_

"Will you?"

"_W-will I what?"_

"Will you kill me?"

"_I… I don't know… I'm really sorry… Maple… You're m-much stronger than I am… P-people actually see you… I was always invisible to everyone…"_

"What about Prussia?"

"_He…" _His mental throat seemed to choke with tears. "_Except him… E-even America used to forget me… M-maybe, if you s-stay, we'll be noticed…"_

"But I'm human! I'm not a Nation, like you. I have no idea what's happening to me… Maple…"

"_Can't you feel it?" _Canada questioned, poking gently at Mattie's consciousness. "_Can't you feel the sc-scars? Y-you may as well be a N-Nation now… We're immortal…"_

"So… So what will happen to us? If both of us stay?"

"_I-I don't know… I… I don't know anything anymore…"_

Canada curled in on himself, at the back of Mattie's mind, retreating into the safety of silence. It was a horrible return into the world: he had been making pancakes, Kumagourou at his feet, and then he had woken up here, in the darkness and silence of a human's mind. A human, identical to him in appearance, but louder, stronger…

What had become of Prussia? It was now, more than ever, that he longed for the Nation who was so very opposite to him, but who had always been there for him, always seen him.

But if Canada ever saw him again, he wouldn't even be able to speak.

And that scared him far more than the thought of disappearing forever.

* * *

><p><em>I wrote a one-shotdrabble thingy last night, based on a review left by _Unknown Variable:

"Where's Russia and Belarus and wouldn't it be really funny if Belarus started stalking a freaked-out amnesiac-Ivan for no apparent reason at school?"

_It's up now, so go check it out._


	5. Meeting

_AN. I hope you enjoy, even though things haven't started to really heat up yet._

* * *

><p>Arthur Kirkland strode quickly down the road, clear green eyes locked on the nearest bus stop. He forced himself to think only of that bus stop: just <em>look <em>at that fascinating blue paint, the thin metal seat coated thickly in bird shit, and the obscenely graphitized glass. Anything, to stop himself from thinking of...

England. Or Britain. Or the whole of Europe, might he add.

Arthur had felt physically fine yesterday, having recovered from that vile stomach bug. It was his mother who had forced him to take an extra day's leave from school, to ensure that the illness had definitely vanished.

Two nights ago, Arthur had played host to a series of vivid, highly realistic dreams. Of pirate ships and conquests, formal and informal meetings, of him attempting to grow his hair long to match the latest French fashions. When he had woken up, a small green rabbit-like _thing _was hovering beside his bed.

The teenager refused to believe that they were anything but dreams and/or delusions, no matter the evidence to the contrary. Unusual scars and blemishes that Arthur had never seen before had suddenly appeared overnight. During his regular morning shower, he had discovered a _tattoo_ on his shoulder blade.

It was definitely real: no matter how much he had scrubbed at the French flag marring his pale skin, it wouldn't come off.

The dreams, too, had _seemed_ real. They were honestly more like memories than anything else.

It was only as the bus (crowded with high-school students) rounded the corner that Arthur's head jerked up, and he cursed, realising that his thoughts had strayed from the poop-covered seat into more hazardous waters.

Arthur climbed aboard quickly, flashing his bus pass at the driver, and stumbled down the leg-strewn aisle to sit in his usual place about half way back.

Then a hand had flown out to stop him.

His head whipped around, biting retorts springing to his lips – _Watch out, you stupid wanker, _or something of the sort. Instead, he felt his heart lurch into his throat for a split second, beating a mile a minute, before he realised that he had mistaken the boy for someone else.

"Hi," said the doppelganger, in such a subdued voice that Arthur could hardly hear it over the other students' chattering. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

He had violet eyes, framed by thin glasses and wavy, dark blonde hair. _Canada, _supplied Arthur's traitorous mind.

Arthur swallowed, and said, "Of course, _Mathew_."

The bus began to roll off down the street.

The English boy glanced nervously away from his seat-buddy, and stared out the window at the dozens of identical houses flashing by. He bit his lower lip, straining with all his might to hold in the final, damning question, but... he couldn't help himself.

"I- I know you from somewhere," he stammered, face flushing a dull red. "Other than from class, I mean."

Mattie looked taken aback for a moment, but then he smiled and leaned closer to Arthur. "Nice to see you too, England."

Arthur choked on thin air. "W-what... how..."

"Well, the eyebrows were what gave it away at first," Mattie replied. "But otherwise… You just reminded me of... _you_. That sounds really stupid, doesn't it?"

Arthur shook his head minutely, his brain slowly beginning to comprehend the enormity of the situation.

"So... this isn't just a shared hallucination?" he joked weakly. But he knew that he was clutching at straws (and they weren't the nice, flexible kind.

Horror of all horrors, Mattie shook his head, sending the rest of the trip spiralling down into the gutters of awkward silence.

'_Bugger,' _thought Arthur, grimacing. '_I really _do _have a tattoo.'_

* * *

><p>The bell began to ring as the bus pulled up at the front gates. Arthur nodded politely to Mattie, before hurrying off to his locker to collect his World History text book.<p>

He slid into his seat at the front of classroom 13C with only seconds to spare; their teacher walked in moments later and began to call the role, reciting their names from memory.

"Debbie?"

Debbie granted Miss Hallaway a quick "Here," and then resumed talking animatedly to her friend in the row behind.

"Antonio?"

Arthur turned to see a tall, brown-haired boy with green eyes, darker than his own, grin cheerfully and wave at Miss Hallaway.

Antonio's eyes suddenly locked with Arthurs, and a moment of briefly shared understanding passed between them. There were several other students that he now recognised: students whom he'd seen before, but never truly noticed. Antonio, the Vargas brothers, Yao Wang...

"All present," beamed Miss Hallaway. "Right. Well, today we're going to be discussing the American revolution. Any starting comments?"

"Ha!" snorted Lovino Vargas from the back row. Arthur sighed loudly, letting his head fall to his desk with a _thud_.

"That is hardly a starting comment, Mr Vargas. Exactly what is so funny about the Declaration of Independence?"

"Ask Arthur," Lovino sniggered. "I'm sure he'd be able to tell you."

The rest of the class tittered nervously, though they possessed no concept of the full, grating jibe. It was the nature of high school students to laugh at everything that their peers did.

_Gullible morons, _Arthur fumed.

"Detention, Lovino," snapped Miss Hallaway, rolling her eyes.

_What on Earth was wrong with these children? They did share quite a few odd jokes nowadays._

* * *

><p>After a gruelling hour of World History, followed by an English class, Arthur was more than ready to go home and sleep for a week. Unfortunately, the closest he could get to this dream at one o'clock in the afternoon was Lunch break.<p>

Sighing and grumbling, Arthur dropped off his books and turned for the library – "Heaven knows, I might finally get some peace in there." – before smacking painfully into Mathew Williams.

"Arthur? Everyone's meeting up in the football change rooms in around five minutes..." Mattie trailed off uncertainly, obviously just as uncomfortable as Arthur.

Arthur didn't need to ask who 'everyone' was, so he chose instead to frown in suspicion. His thick eyebrows furrowed together, reminding the other student of thick, wiggling caterpillars.

"Why on earth are we meeting in the _football change rooms?"_

Mattie shrugged helplessly. "America's on the football team, or something..."

Arthur frown only deepened, and, with a heavy heart, he followed Mattie out into the grounds, and into an ugly brick building smelling strongly of feet.

"England!" someone yelled, as soon as the pair entered the locker room. "Canada!"

"Hi, America," whispered Mattie.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Alfred. I see you're just as much of a prat as ever..."

Alfred gave a huge sweeping bow, grinning from ear to ear. "I try my best, _Arthur." _He glanced back over his shoulder, quickly surveying the room behind him. "This is everyone I could find. Some of us are still missing."

"Yeah, yeah, idiot, just get the hell on with it," Lovino snapped from the far corner, crossing his arms. Antonio, who was seated on the bench beside him, smiled fondly at the Italian, slipping a hand into his hair.

"Ah, Lovino, relax! Though, you're still cute when you get all agitated, so don't worry!"

The other Nations exchanged amused, or exasperated, glances, as Lovino furiously batted Antonio's arm away, blushing fiercely.

"Ohonhonhonhon… Antonio's devotion to such a person as Lovino is obviously indicative of true love!" Francis Bonnefoy tossed his long blonde hair, smiling lecherously over at the pair. "I have been saying it for years, have I not?"

"Shut up, frog!" snapped England, slipping easily into the old routine. "We've only been back for three days, and you're already back to your usual perverted self."

"Oh, England, _cher," _France moaned, wiping a tear from his eye. "You _wound _me so!"

"Be quiet!" bellowed Germany. Though, he still looked slightly guilty as Italy's lower lip quivered. He took a deep, calming breath, tugging at the sleeves of his dark school blazer, before continuing.

"We are here to discuss a situation that should be of vital importance to us all! In my view, we have two major issues to contend with. Firstly, there is the question of exactly who had the capability to murder us in the first place. Secondly, how we are to deal with the separation of our National consciousness, and the consciousness of the human bodies we occupy."

"Right," said America, flashing a mega-watt grin. "Let's go around the room, and say what's happening inside our heads. I'll start, yeah?"

Finding no opposition, his grin widened, and he took a deep breath.

"I came back a couple of days ago, to find that I was occupying the brain of a human kid named Alfred F. Jones. He vanished as soon as I tried to talk to him, which was a bit of a shame, 'cause he seemed like a pretty cool guy! I tried to find him, but…" His face fell, and he bit his lip. "But I couldn't. He's gone."

"I'm Mathew Williams," he said, soft voice contrasting sharply against America's boisterous one. "I'm still human, but I've been talking to Canada. He seems reluctant to make me disappear… I'm not sure why…"

"Do you still possess your battle scars?" asked Kiku Honda, dark eyes wide. "What I mean to say is, can you recall your Nation's past?"

"Y-yeah," said Mattie. "I remember everything that he does. The scars appeared yesterday morning."

It took Arthur a few moments to notice that all eyes were now on him.

"England?" America prompts.

"Oh, ah… sorry… I… I'm not really sure. I haven't heard England speak directly to me. A few moments ago, he took over, when I was talking to _that_wanker." He jerked a thumb at Francis, who rolled his eyes.

"You do overreact sometimes, _cher _Arthur. Hmm… It is very strange to be calling you Arthur. You will always be England to me, with your bushy eyebrows and your bad food."

"Alright, alright!" said America, with a nervous laugh. "Let's move on. Yao?"

"I am in the opposite situation to Opium," China explained. "Wang Yao remains in the back of my mind, but I do not wish to relinquish control to him."

"Well, you're a fucking heartless bastard!" snapped Lovino, hands clenching into fists. "Yao was a person, who had a damn right to live!"

"Of course," said China. "But at the present time, the Earth is more in need of China than of Yao."

"Oh _yeah_," said Lovino, words dripping with sarcasm. "That obviously gives you a license to shut him up. We both agree that your reasoning's a load of bullshit."

"I never agreed or disagreed with your reasoning," said Kiku, face impassive, for Romano… _or was it Lovino_… had caught his eye. In truth, Lovino had looked over at him accidentally. Accidentally, and Romano was now rolling his own eyes.

"I didn't mean _him," _said Lovino. "I meant Romano and I. We're both here. And I'm not going anywhere for any goddamn Nation."


	6. Memories

**A/N: The usual warnings. Sorry, everyone.**

* * *

><p>"Romano," said America, uncharacteristically serious, "Are you sure?"<p>

"Of course I'm sure!" snarled Romano. The voice was, unmistakeably, Romano's, issuing from Lovino's lips. "What do you think I am, a brainless idiot?"

America smiled nervously and held up his hands. "No, Romano. It's just… China has a point."

Lovino's cheeks bloom red. Antonio chuckles nervously, moving to place a placating hand on his best friend's shoulder.

"A… Anyway," Mathew stutters, "It doesn't seem to be a decision either of us can make. Canada's more important than I am… I'm useless to this world. Canada wants to come forward… well… sort of… but he can't. He's stuck."

There were murmurs of agreement around the room. Kiku was nodding, as were Francis and Antonio.

Arthur frowned. He hadn't quite worked out who he was. He was different from before, certainly, but there was no _England _in his mind, only memories, fears, past thoughts, desires. Desires. What did he want?

"What will happen to Lovi, then?" asked Antonio. He had finally coaxed the Italian back into his seat; Lovino was leaning against his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed with intense frustration.

"Who knows?" said Yao, shrugging. "If it is the case that you are sharing an equal portion of a single brain, it is unlikely that the situation will maintain itself. One will eventually give way to the other."

Ludwig nods. A few strands of blond hair fall into his eyes and Feliciano reaches up, smiling, to brush them away. "That does seem the most logical pathway. You should prepare yourself for that possibility, Lovino."

"Tch," Lovino hissed. "I'm not following any of your shitty advice, _kraut. _What's to say my brother isn't in the same situation as I am?"

"So what if he is?" sighed Ludwig, at the same time as Feliciano said,

"I'm not. Definitely not, Lovi."

Lovino's face, defined features and straight, sharp nose the exact mirror of his brother's, contorts into an expression somewhere between fury and grief. He tells himself that he couldn't care less – that would be stupid; Feliciano wasn't that fucking important – but it's hard when his insides feel as though they're being hacked apart with gardening shears.

He can think of a hundred things he wants to say, to spit into his double's smiling face, but all he can manage is, "You're not?"

"My name is Italia. Italia Veneziano. Feliciano Vargas died before I could meet him."

"Just like me!" cries America, pumping a fist in the air. Arthur whacks him upside the head. No one is paying them any attention.

"Vene," murmurs Romano. His eyes are glassy. "You… No, you killed… You killed my brother. _Murderer." _

If it weren't for Antonio's hand on his shoulder, larger and warmer than his own, he feels he would sink into the earth and crumble.

"No!" cries Italy, amber eyes widening. "I am your brother, Romano! I'm still your brother, Lovino, only different."

"_Different?! _You killed him-"

"It wasn't my fault! I need to be here, on this earth."

"Right," scoffs Lovino, "North Italy's more important than some worthless human, right?"

Italy shakes his head back and forth, so fast that his auburn hair flies about his face, curl bobbing. "You know why I'm here, Romano, don't be mean. I'm still waiting."

"Waiting for what? Your period? I've told you before, Veneziano…"

"For him," interrupts Francis, frowning. "He hasn't returned yet, has he?" And never will, he adds silently, or else he might have, though Vene hadn't noticed.

Ludwig coughs uncomfortably. "I don't know if this has happened to anyone else," he says, attempting to divert the conversation into safer harbours. "I'm Ludwig. I always have been. We agreed that it would be best if Germany disappeared."

The room fell silent, all at a loss for words, all for different reasons. Arthur wondered if he should also speak up, but he wasn't sure if England had gone; after all, England had taken over just a moment ago.

"Do you still have his memories?" inquired Kiku, at last. "His scars?"

"Everything," affirmed Ludwig. He detached his eyes from Feliciano's hair, surveyed the room, finally spotting Francis. After Prussia, Francis was next best. "And more."

"And more?" Francis murmured. His accent had thickened and broadened, as it had been in the old days, back _then_. "Are you sure, Ludwig?"

Ludwig nodded, and looked back down at Italy. He had gone to sleep on Ludwig's arm, slight shoulders rising and falling, rising and falling. "Yes. I am certain."

"We will talk later, before any more happens," said Francis, simply, and Ludwig nodded again. He wasn't a rash person; Vene had waited a long time, Ludwig could wait as well.

"Right," said America. New World nations, thought Francis, amusedly. "The second matter… what is the second matter?"

"Idiot," snapped England. "Of course, we're all wondering why so many of us are all conveniently here, at the same British multicultural high school in the same dull little town."

"Again, simple," said Yao, sounding bored. "Obviously, we are here because the nature of the world is to be paralleled by nations."

"Uh… What?"

"Honestly, America," said Arthur. "He said that the world needs nations. The quickest way by which to draw us all together would be through a school, correct?"

"Yes," said Ludwig, "But our bodies will begin to age to match our nations. In a month, we will no longer pass as students, except at a university."

"Hah," snapped Romano, suddenly. "That doesn't matter, potato-head, does it? As if we'll still be here in a month's time."

"Where else will we be?" murmured Spain. His fingers brushed Lovino's hair and Lovino slapped them away as if stung.

"Back in our rightful places, of course! Our job is diplomacy, so we're going to do it."

"Even those who remain human?" said Yao, doubtfully.

'Even us," said Ludwig, firmly. "I may be Ludwig, but I am still Germany."

"This stuff is way too confusing," moaned America. "Let's meet here again tomorrow, alright? Same time."

Even Ludwig didn't protest when everyone else groaned in agreement.

Italy tugged on his arm.

"Germany… Ludwig?" He looked up with bleary eyes. "Are you coming to Biology?"

"You go to Biology," directed Ludwig, helping him gently to his feet. "I need to discuss something with Francis."

Italy frowned, but said, "Alright! Have fun~" and left, cheerfully enough.

"I don't care what anyone says," said Lovino, defiantly, "I'm ditching. Coming, Spagna?"

Antonio looked conflicted, but nodded.

The pair left the room, and Ludwig and Francis were left alone.

"So," said Francis heavily, sitting down on Lovino's vacated bench. He looked around at the wood-panelled walls, up at the gym lockers. A pair of tatty sneakers was poking out of its cubby. "Disgusting! Who cleans this place? I think the school is merely too cheap to hire someone… typical of England, isn't it?"

"I know," interrupted Ludwig.

Francis sighed. He leaned his head back against the wall and rubbed at his ears, as though some amount of rubbing would stop him from hearing the other man's words.

"Everything?"

"I know everything," Ludwig confirmed. "I would have gone to Austria, my brother, but they aren't here."

"No, no, it's alright. I had an idea it would come to this, anyway." Looking away delicately, picking the undersides of his nails with a smooth thumbnail, Francis said, "I apologise. It was my fault. The Holy Roman Empire would never have lasted anyway, but, if it's any consolation…"

"I was reckless," said Ludwig. "It won't happen again."

"Funny," mused Francis, "that you are already referring to yourself by your nation name. Are you sure you are not Germany?"

"The old Germany is gone," said Ludwig. "I possess all of his memories, scars and duties, but he is gone."

"You do seem very similar," sighed Francis. "I wonder how Vene will take it."

"Germany… he lo… lov… _loved _Veneziano, just as I…" his voice trailed off into a mumble.

"Oh? Who is it, Ludwig?" Francis' foreign tongue tripped across the _d_, accented the _i._ Ludwig flushed dully.

"Feliciano," he grunted. "But that doesn't matter. Feliciano is dead."

Italy had a stronger will to live.

"Ah," said Francis, frowning. "That. Being Francis, having France inside my head, I know that Vene and Feli were very similar people. You could call their personalities identical, though Vene had more experience with sadness. I also know that Feli loved you, though not as much as North Italy had loved Germany."

"Almost as much?"

Francis smiled, almost sadly, and said, "Nations, living for as long as they do, seem to have a far greater capacity for emotions than you humans do. I suppose that I cannot call you human anymore. However, we always seem to forget that nations are just as transient as humans are. For us, losing the one we love to war or dissolution is more pain than it seems possible to bear."

Suddenly, Ludwig thought of Prussia, flag billowing, burning. The fear, the brutal pain. Prussia had been too strong. Instead of dissolving, he had changed. _Too awesome to die, _he had later boasted, but Germany had known how much he had suffered to become East, to occupy the German nation with him, and Germany had been willing; Germany couldn't lose his brother.

That was his nation part. To the human, Ludwig, it seemed almost impossible. More feelings – things he wasn't good with, things his brain hadn't been created to process – were creeping in, one by one, and then_ that _feeling. The tingling, the nervousness, embarrassment, intense shame. Ludwig tried to clamp down on them, but it was impossible.

"Stuck, are you?" laughed France, not Francis. "It will stay like this, you know. Though you are Ludwig, you are now also a nation. You must bear its weight."

"But I… I…" For the first time in his twelve year schooling career, Ludwig felt out of his depth. There was no basic formula to handle emotion after all. He felt ridiculous for even thinking it.

"You don't know how to feel?" finished France. "Feel the way you wish to feel, otherwise it won't be genuine when you tell him, will it?"

"Tell him what?" Ludwig exploded, burying his head in his hands. "He isn't Feli anymore, he's someone _else. _He's someone that Germany loved."

"He most probably feels the same way," said Francis. "He has lost Germany, and after Holy Rome, he was the only one Vene trusted completely."

Trusted completely. Germany had known. Ludwig _was _Germany. How did he feel?

"When Vene felt really sad, he would act," said Francis. "Feli was the same."

Was. Used to be.

But his sadness at Feli's leaving in comparison to his happiness that Veneziano was safe was like comparing the Earth to the Universe. Ludwig wondered whether he should feel guilty. Instead, he felt relief.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The love was difficult to write realistically. Please tell me how I did.**


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